The Cost of Heroism
by The Red Fedora
Summary: "A hero is true to his or her conscience. In short, heroism means doing the right thing regardless of the consequences." WDZ
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Property of the mouse…even though I wish he was mine._

_A/N: In answer to a challenge from IcyWaters. I hope I did it justice. On with the show._

* * *

A hero is true to his or her conscience. In short, heroism means

doing the right thing regardless of the consequences.

-Brandon Mull

* * *

The rain drummed a steady rhythm against the roof of the mission. It served as a soothing accompaniment to the low murmur of voices of those sheltered within its walls, and a welcomed change from the violent pounding of the storms that had plagued the pueblo earlier that evening. Los Angeles had experienced an unusually long stretch of drought, the wells nearly dry and the crops shriveled and stunted, and though the thought of rain a welcomed one, the heavy rains that had come with the storm had fallen fast and hard, much too fast for the parched and hardened soils to absorb. The patrols and refugees had brought word of roads washed out, farm lands flooded and dry stream beds transforming into raging rivers in a matter of minutes.

With the night approaching, it was decided that all those who had sought the safety of the mission would remain within its walls at least until day break, as the damage would be better assessed in the light of day. Father Philippe made his round among the refugees, offering food and water, and a prayer to help to calm their fears. The lights from the candles flickered as the doors to the church swung open, admitting a pair of bedraggled soldiers and a gust of cool wet wind. A small child cried out as several were extinguished. The padre waited until the men shouldered the door closed and set the iron latch firmly before relighting the candles.

There was little doubt as to the identity of the two men, even in the dim light of the church there was no mistaking the portly girth of Sergeant Garcia, or the drooping mustache of Corporal Reyes. Though they were uncharacteristically quiet and bedraggled, uniforms torn and stained with mud, leaning against the rough wood of the door as if it were the only thing keeping them on their feet. Father Philippe frowned as the corporal swayed unsteadily. Garcia grasped the smaller man's arm with a large hand, guiding him to the closest bench, where the Reyes collapsed like a sack of corn flour. The padre started forward to greet them, but paused as a small boy broke away from his family and rushed over to greet them.

A gentle smile appeared on Garcia's round face as he spoke with the boy. It slipped as the child asked a question that was lost to the padre's ears as a small babe began to wail.

"Pablo!"

The boy turned at his father's call and with one last smile at the soldiers, returned to his family. Garcia's smile vanished completely with the boy gone, replaced by a weariness and a sadness that aged him beyond his years. He slumped down onto the bench beside Reyes, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Do you really believe it, Sergeant?" Reyes asked. He spoke as if every word took great effort to form, and even more to speak.

"I don't know." The bench trembled beneath the force of the large man's heavy sigh. "I want to believe it is true, but…well you were there as well. You saw the river." His Adam's apple bobbed against his collar as he swallowed heavily. "No one could survive that."

"He could maybe." Reyes offered.

A noncommittal grunt was his reply.

Reyes shrugged and then winced, raising a hand to rub at his shoulder. "If the ghosts didn't get him."

Garcia turned to face the corporal, exasperation on his round face. "For the last time, stupido, there is no such thing as ghosts."

Reyes looked less than convinced. "If you say so, Sergeant."

"I do."

"But you heard the noise too."

Garcia shook his head. "That was not a ghost. It was…" he paused. "It was a bird…or the wind."

"I've never heard the wind sound like that before." Reyes shuddered. "and what about the light?"

"Enough!" Garcia threw up his hands in frustration. "No more talk of ghosts. That is an order, Corporal."

Reyes nodded, slumping deeper into the bench.

"Sergeant?" He asked quietly after a moment.

"What?"

"I will pray that he did survive."

Garcia sighed. He opened his fist slowly, removing a wad of fabric and smoothing it over his knee.

"Me too, Corporal." He murmured. "Me too."

The padre held back a gasp. It was a familiar scrap of black silk, torn and battered.

The mask of El Zorro.


	2. Chapter 2

_Earlier that day_

Storm clouds gathered against the horizon, dark and ominous against the evening sky. A cloud of dust streaked toward them, across the hard packed clay of the desert, stirred by the hooves of a large black stallion. Zorro laughed as Tornado leapt over a large tumbleweed, clearing the obstacle with ease and striking the ground with a renewed burst of speed. The air was charged and alive, the warm winds carrying the scent of rain, sage and ozone. His father was predicting the storm to be a strong one, claiming that his old shoulder wound was never wrong. Whenever it began to ache, Don Alejandro went into battle mode, dictating orders to prepare the hacienda against the approaching threat.

He'd barely managed to escape the flurry of last minute tasks by ducking into the passage in the library. Tornado required exercising if the storm was to be as bad as his father thought. A bored horse was not a happy horse. For anyone involved. Particularly true of Tornado. It had taken weeks to set everything right again after the last time a storm had plagued the pueblo, and to order a new leather bridle to replace the one the stallion had used as a chew toy. He hoped that if he wore Tornado down with a long run that the horse might be content to enjoy a peaceful rest. If nothing else, it allowed Bernardo time to remove all temptations from the main cavern.

Movement caught his eye in the distance and Zorro slowed the stallion to a walk, easing them closer to edge of the cliff, a wide grin sliding across his face.

"Look there, Tornado. It appears that Sergeant Garcia and Corporal Reyes have returned from San Diego." Mischief danced in his dark eyes. "Shall we go and welcome them home?"

Tornado tossed his head, as if in agreement, and his master laughed. They turned away from the edge, toward the path which led to the canyon. Behind them, and far below, a second cloud of dust appeared, a single rider racing in the direction of the soldiers with great haste.

* * *

Sergeant Garcia studied the storm with weary gaze. It had been a long day, a very long day, and his back hurt and his seat was sore from riding so long. He had hoped to reach Los Angeles with enough time to enjoy a warm meal and perhaps a bottle of wine at the tavern, but it didn't look likely. He had witnessed many storms in his years at the garrison in Los Angeles, some were small and good, and some not so small and not so good. By appearances, this storm looked to be the later.

He was not looking forward to the days to come. Their new Commandante was a good man. A man who believed that the army should help and protect the people, which was a good thing; however, at the moment, it likely meant a very long and wet and muddy night. He cast a glance over his shoulder at his lancers. Corporal Reyes was studying the distant clouds with distrust in his droopy eyes. He too had witnessed many such storms. Privates Mendoza and Sanchez, in contrast to their superior officers, watched the building clouds with the eagerness and excitement characteristic of the young, before it was dulled by time and experience. It made Garcia feel very old and very tired.

"I think we should hurry, Sergeant." Reyes called out above the wind, clutching his hat to his head as a fresh gust of wind assailed the men.

Garcia studied the horizon, and he nodded in agreement with his second.

"We will return along the canyon road." He ordered. "If it is not flooded." He added under his breath.

Even from a distance, the rains could cause the dry stream beds in the canyons to rise into raging torrents. If there was any chance for trouble, it would be at the place where the main highway dipped into the bed of the Snake Canyon. It was safe enough to travel in the dry season when the river was only a small stream and could easily be crossed, but when the storm season came, even the best of riders chose to take the longer road through the foothills, though it nearly doubled the journey.

"Sergeant!"

Garcia turned to face the road, following Reyes gesture to a small cloud of dust on the trail ahead. As it grew nearer, a lanky brown mule emerged with a small boy clinging to its broad back. The boy was barefoot and dressed as a peon. His eyes were wide and fearful beneath a mop of dark hair, and he struggled against Garcia as the man caught the reigns, the rest circling the two.

"Easy, little one, we will not harm you." Garcia soothed. "Where are your parents? You should not be out here on your own, especially not when a storm is coming."

"My family needs help, soldier! Please, you must help them! The water came up and caught the wagon!" The boy tugged at the reigns. "My mother and sister are trapped! You must come!"

Garcia's great heart sank at the boy's words, but he hid it well as he released the reigns and waved forward. "Lead us to them, Niño. Lancers, advance."

The boy turned the mule and urged it into a lope, glancing back once to see if the soldiers were following before plunging down into the canyon. Garcia urged his horse into a run and prayed they were not too late.


	3. Chapter 3

Zorro pulled back on the reigns, slowing Tornado to a walk as he listened, ears straining against the wind. He slid a gloved hand along the silky neck as the stallion tossed his head impatiently.

"Easy, boy." The words an absent murmur.

He frowned. The soldiers had vanished into the canyon nearly a twenty minutes earlier, a canyon, which by the sound of it, was now home to river. If the men had found the road to be blocked, a likely scenario, they would have turned back long before now, which meant they would be visible from his vantage point. And yet they were not. Zorro urged Tornado forward, allowing the stallion to pick his own path along the rock strewn trail. The roar grew louder as they neared the bend, amplified by the steep rock walls. Tornado suddenly shook his head and planted his feet firmly against his master's intent to continue.

"I know, my friend, I too feel something is not right. We must at least investigate, eh?"

The stallion shook his head, emphasizing his disagreement, but gave in as his master urged him forward. Zorro's concerned frown gave way to alarm as they reached the ridge which overlooked the road, or what had once been the road. A wagon was wedged firmly in between two large boulders, foaming water nearly topping its sides, and braced precariously on the seat were a woman and a small girl. Sergeant Garcia and the lancers were gathered on the far side of the river, along with a man and a small boy. A rope was stretched between the wagon and the shore, braced by the soldiers with Garcia serving as anchor.

A daring plan but it had the potential to succeed. Zorro edged Tornado along the path slowly, not wanting to break their concentration, as one of the soldiers and the man began to make their way cautiously along the rope and into the river.

"Zorro!"

He acknowledged the boy's cry with a small nod as they reached the water's edge. The men in the river never faltered as they inched toward the wagon. He dismounted in case they required assistance, removing his silk cape and looping it over the horn of his saddle as he watched the scene unfold. The men had reached the wagon, struggling to remain upright against the strong pull of the current. Zorro's eyes narrowed as the wagon shifted. His slid his sword belt free, securing it to his saddle and exchanging it for his whip as the stressed wood gave an ominous creak.

The woman leaned forward, lowering the girl toward the outstretched arms of her father. As she did, the wagon gave a sharp crack and broke free of the boulders, the momentum tossing the woman and the girl into the river. The soldiers were drug forward as the wagon was tugged into the current. Garcia shouted an order, his voice booming over the roar of the river, and the soldiers dug their heels into the rocky bank. Zorro watched the churning surface of the river with sharp eyes as the rope pulled taunt.

Reyes was the first to surface, easily visible by the blue of his uniform jacket, next the man and then his wife, her sobs frantic as he pulled her to the rope. Zorro bolted forward, leaping along the boulders as he scanned for the girl. His heart gave a surged of relief as he caught sight of her crawling onto a low boulder ten meters away.

"Be still, little one." He called to the girl, wincing as her foot slipped against the wet stone.

She sat down, a miserable huddle against the stone. She couldn't have been more than four years of age, and he vowed that she would see five. He flashed a reassuring smile, which widened as he found her focus not on him but on Tornado, who had followed and was dancing impatiently along the path above them.

"Do you like horses, little one?" He called in a soothing tone as he studied his options.

She nodded, shivering. The rock was near the center of the river, too far to be easily reached from either side. An old gnarled tree leaned over the river, just above the rock. It was dry and brittle and was unlikely to hold his weight long enough for him to retrieve the girl and return them both to safety. It might have held her light weight but was too far above her head to be reached. Voices grew louder on the opposite shore as the rest joined them.

"Maria!"

Zorro winced as the girl turned quickly in response to her father's cry, nearly sliding from the rock.

"Remain still, Maria." He called out, holding a hand to motion the others back.

Garcia held up the rope, but Zorro shook his head. The river was too wide and too strong to throw the rope across, and the girl too weak against the strength of the current. It was a miracle she had reached the rock at all. Reyes shouted a suggestion that eluded Zorro on his side of the raging waters, but he watched as Garcia gave a hesitant nod and the men moved further upstream. The line was knotted securely under the Corporal's arms and then braced as he made his way cautiously into the river. Zorro nodded his approval as he watched the corporal's progress.

It was a decent plan and might have worked, had the water not begun to rise. The girl stood, balanced precariously on a small bit of dry space, whimpering fearfully. They were out of time. Without further thought, Zorro unfurled the whip and snapped it toward the branch. The black leather wound tight around the wood and held as he pulled. His boots left the ground and the branch groaned beneath his weight as he swung low, arm outstretched, catching the girl. The branch buckled and they dipped closer to churning surface of the river. His dark eyes hardened with determination.

"Garcia, catch!"

He used their momentum to toss the girl toward the opposite shore, and into the waiting arms of the sergeant. And then, with a massive crack, the branch fell.

And the river swallowed him whole.


	4. Chapter 4

It all happened so quickly that those on the opposite shore had little enough time to react, let alone notice that the man in black had vanished before their eyes. Garcia had heard Zorro's shout, leaving Reyes to the lancers as he rushed to catch the little one as she flew through the air toward him. He'd caught her easily enough, cradling the small girl in his arms like a frightened kitten, and then the loose sands beneath his boots had given way, and it was only by the grace of the good Lord that they'd managed to avoid a second dousing. By the time that the girl was safely in the arms of her grateful parents, and all were on somewhat stable footing. It was then that Reyes had made the observation that Zorro was not among them.

In fact, the only sign that he had indeed been there at all was the presence of the great black stallion on the opposite bank. An ear splitting whinny pierced the air as Garcia edged closer to the water, craning his neck to see as far downstream as possible, but with no luck. No whip. No branch. No Zorro, and when he turned back, no horse, only a flash of black over the top of the road, and the fading sound of hoof beats in the distance. Garcia shook himself out of his temporary stupor, shouting orders as he rushed toward his own horse.

"Mendoza, Sanchez, take the family to the mission. Corporal, come with me."

He mounted swiftly, adrenaline fueling his strength, and without checking to see that his orders were obeyed, he urged his gelding up the trail to the ridge. The canyon walls were steep and unstable with no clear road, only sharp rocks and scraggly brush, and the rising river only complicated matters, as did the rain, which was beginning to fall. The snake canyon was narrow and steep for many miles, if there was any chance of finding Zorro it would be toward its mouth where the river widened and slowed, if he survived its dangers, and there were many.

The brown water below moved swiftly, foaming white as it spun around and through the boulders. If Zorro managed to avoid the rocks, there was still the undercurrents that could drag even a grown man down and spin him like a top until he drowned. And tree branches and vegetation which could just as easily trap and kill. When Garcia was a small boy, he'd witnessed the drowning of a man from his village, and had seen the body when it was retrieved. He wished never to witness such a thing again.

The thunder rumbled overhead as the dark clouds dimmed what was left of the evening light. His eyes strained against it, searching for a patch of black against the river below. The rain began to fall harder and the wind grew stronger, but Garcia ignored it as he urged his horse into a faster gait. Zorro would survive.

He must.

* * *

He was cold. A mind numbing cold that sank into the marrow of his bones, pressed into his ears and nose and throat, stealing the breath from his lungs with icy tentacles. Zorro choked weakly against it, but the action only served to make his lungs tighten. His body spun violently without warning, and there was a pain in his skull and a churning of his stomach. He floated for a moment, suspended with no sense of which direction was up and which was down. It was surreal, like a dream. And then his boot struck an unyielding force, and he spun again, and his shoulder struck something and then his back, and the resulting pain was enough to shock him into awareness.

His lungs screamed for air. He pressed both feet against the rock and pushed hard, using the force of the current to propel himself to the upward. His head broke the surface, and he coughed up the water from his lungs, sucking greedily at the sweet air. A cord pulled taunt against his throat and he gasped as it cut his air. He fumbled blindly against it, and it gave way with a tug and a burn against his skin. His gloves joined his hat, vanishing beneath the murky waters, followed by his boots. Free of the weight, he turned onto his back in an attempt to keep his face above the water, as the current swept him along like a piece of driftwood. Needles struck his exposed skin as the rain beat down from the billowing clouds above. Twilight had fallen, and it would soon be night. He must find a way out of the river, before the light, or his strength, faded completely.

He could make out the edges of the canyon against the sky. They appeared impossibly high and imposing, like the walls of a very large box. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, forcing his mind to focus, pressing back the fear. The situation was not lost yet, though it would be if he gave in to despair. He blinked against the spray of the river and turned his focus to the river, but it all he could make out in the dim light were edges and blurred shapes. If only he could see, he might be able to find a way out. A flash of lightning lit the twilight as if in answer to his prayer, and his heart fell even as a deafening boom of thunder echoed through the canyon.

The stream had swelled up the sides of the canyon, swallowing the ledge that had held the road. There was nowhere to climb even if he'd found a way to brace himself against the current. Something large and solid bumped against his shoulders from behind. He reached out to push it away, and gave a small laugh instead as he felt rough bark and splintered wood beneath his fingers. With a burst of strength, he pushed forward, catching the log. He felt a sharp pain and then a warm trickle against his face as he wrapped his arms around the waterlogged wood. The effort sapped his waning strength, and he let his body relax, attempting to conserve what little energy remained. There was little he could do, but to hold on and pray for a miracle.

A faint whinny carried on the wind, and he smiled despite his exhaustion.

"Hold on."

The murmured words lost in the roar of the river and the storm.

_Just a little while longer_.

* * *

_A/N: sorry for the delay. Slow internet turned into no internet - and my days were filled with small kids with more energy than I have. I will finish this - never fear. _


	5. Chapter 5

The log bumped gently beneath him, waking him, and low groan slipped from his lips as it rolled, dipping him lower into the cold water. Zorro shifted, drawing his legs beneath him, and paused as his knees pressed against solid earth. His eyes opened into narrow slits, then fully as realization pierced his muddled mind. He released an arm, and then the other, and a small laugh gave way to a hacking cough as he caught a face full of water as they gave way beneath him. With no small effort, he pulled his head from the water, dragging his body forward and onto somewhat drier ground.

He rolled onto his back, ignoring the mud he felt seeping into his clothes and his hair, and as he did a flash of searing pain cut through his side, stealing the breath from his battered lungs. His hand rose to rest against his ribs, fingers trembling with fatigue as they probed the bones. He bit down into his lip, holding back a cry as the white hot pain returned. Fractured. Broken maybe. The hand fell slack as he fought to catch his breath. The rain was still falling though lighter than before, the rumble of thunder fainter. A gust of wind cut through his thin, wet clothing and he shivered, wincing as his body protested the movement.

His eyes opened, blinking against the rain. It was dark, fully night. Above, the moon was attempting to break through, small patches of sliver light shimmering through the swiftly moving clouds above. He turned his head carefully, and smiled faintly as he recognized his surroundings. A few miles from home, though it might as well be a hundred in his current predicament. He shivered again as the wind returned, the gust stronger than the last. He needed to find shelter, and then decide how to best proceed.

He rolled to his side, carefully, and edged up to his knees, gritting his teeth against the pain. He pushed back to his feet, wavering unsteadily as he eyed the small rise to the cave above. His dark eyes narrowed with determination and he moved forward, collapsing against the cool, dry stone several painful minutes later. It was several more before he was able to steady his breathing, and the pounding in his ears subsided, and he heard the voices. He thought them to be a hallucination at first, but then he opened his eyes, and saw the flickering of torches in the distance, and wondered absently how they managed to stay alight in the rain.

As they drew closer, he felt a grin stretch his face of its own accord. The two men were on foot, the smaller of the two following the larger as the path was barely wide enough for one, their voices a murmur against the wind they paused below. His grin faded as the Corporal moved closer to the water, the light from his torch illuminating the log, and the swiftly moving river just behind the small pool of calm in which it rested. A few inches more and he would still be drifting on the river, and with his current state, would likely have drowned. He closed his eyes briefly at the thought.

A commotion broke out below and he looked down in time to see Reyes' torch vanished beneath the dark waters. He watched helplessly as Garcia threw out a massive hand, closing over the smaller man's collar and hauling him back to the safety of the shore. Reyes collapsed onto the path, his face pale beneath the light of the remaining torch, his superior's a matching shade. Zorro relaxed as Reyes responded to Garcia's question with a small nod, and then stilled as the man's hand rose, a familiar object in its grasp. He ignored the pain in his side as his hands shot to his face, sliding over his eyes and forehead, tangling fingers in his hair as realization swept over him.

He pressed deeper into the darkness, panic welling inside his chest. His eyes flashed to the entrance of the cave as he fought to think. His mask. With it he would have welcomed their assistance, trusting that their honor would prevent them from using his weakened state to discover his secret. Garcia had a good heart and he would have, and had in the past, trusted the man with his life. But without it…without it there was more than his life at stake. He would not place that burden on the two men, or risk the lives of his father and Bernardo. But how could he prevent it, with the men mere steps away from his hiding place? At least the rain and the hard rock hid his trail, perhaps it could buy him time.

He eased back quietly, shifting away from the mouth of the cave and deeper into the cold dark interior. His legs trembled as he carefully stood and turned, and nearly jumped out of his skin. He was not alone it seemed. He slumped back against the wall, struggling to catch his breath as the skull grinned back at him in the faint light from the torch. His mind snorted in amusement, and he offered an apologetic smile and a small dip of his head in acknowledgement. Snake Canyon was riddled with caverns, many used by ancient tribes as graves for their honored dead. This man, judging from the tattered threads, which clothed the seated skeleton, and the head dress, which rested above the grinning skull, had once been a chieftain.

Raised voices carried from the mouth of the cave, reminding Diego of his current predicament. The two men appeared to be arguing. A grin curled the edge of his mouth as he listened.

"For the last time, Corporal. There are no such things as ghosts!" Garcia bellowed.

"That's not what my abuela told me." The Corporal countered. "She told me that the caves were guarded by the spirits of the old ones, and that if you disturbed them, they would curse you forever!"

Diego glanced up at the bones before him, an apology in his eyes as he removed the crumbling pouch from the man's belt. _Forgive me_. He sniffed the contents carefully, and then poured the powder onto the ground beside the skeleton. He fumbled a hand toward the objects beside the chief, gathering two and pressing deeper into the cave.

"She was just trying to frighten you into behaving." Garcia grumbled. There was a grunt and a skittering of small rocks against the stone. "Now help me. We must find Zorro. He may be injured and need our help."

The concern in the Sergeant's voice sent a feeling of warmth and guilt through Diego. He pressed it aside as he raised the gourd to his lips and blew. A mournful sound echoed through the cavern, and the voices fell silent. Then he struck the flint against the stone floor and tucked himself into the alcove behind the chief as the powder caught, and a blinding flash exploded in the mouth of the cave. There was a startled cry followed by a loud splash. As the light faded, he edged to the mouth of the cave in time to see Garcia pull Reyes from the water a second time. Unable to resist, he raised the gourd to his mouth a second time and the two men flew back down the path, the torch light dancing in their wake. Diego lay back against the rock, gasping between the pain and the laughter.

"I'm sorry, my friends." He murmured.

The humor faded as the torch vanished from sight, and he found himself alone once more. The gourd rolled to his side, and his hand fell to rest against his throbbing ribs. He closed his eyes, shivering as a gust of wind swept through the cavern. He wondered if Tornado had found his way back home. Bernardo would be beside himself with worry, as would his father. He opened his eyes, watching as the clouds swallowed the moon and the rain returned. He hoped they would have the sense to wait until daylight to search for him.

He gathered his strength, and moved deeper into the cavern, out of the reach of the wind and the rain. He would spend an uncomfortable night, but perhaps the situation would not appear so bleak in the light of day. He curled against the stone floor, his back against the smooth cold wall, his limbs and eyes heavy with sleep. The comforting darkness took him swiftly, and so deeply that he failed to hear the sounds from within the cave, sounds that grew nearer with each quiet breath, until a large dark figure that loomed above him. A warm puff of air caressed his face, and a soft muzzle nuzzled his ear, leaving a trail of wet apple scent slobber in its wake.

He smiled.

* * *

_A/N: Tornado is truly one of a kind. To hear a friend of mine talk, horses are more likely to leave you for dead than rescue you. In the case of mine, I believe her…but Tornado…well he's just special._


	6. Epilogue

Garcia closed the door to his quarters and set the candle he carried on the top of the chest of drawers. The light danced in the gentle breeze that drifted through the open window behind him. He closed his eyes, his heart heavy with weariness, and sadness. A week had passed since the rains had begun, a week of mud and floods and other troubles, with a few moments of victory on the side. But pueblo held strong and things were slowly beginning to return to normal. At least for all but the two who knew the truth about what had happened in Snake Canyon on that fateful night.

A week since the river had swallowed the fox whole.

Garcia opened his eyes with a small huff of breath, and reached inside the top drawer. His heart gave a twinge of pain as his calloused fingers closed around the scrap of fabric, hidden beneath a stack of clean shirts. He'd half expected it to be missing. He'd hoped that it would be missing. But it wasn't. He sunk down onto the bed, the mask clutched in his fist. There had been no sign of Zorro, and with each day that passed he found it more difficult to hold onto the hope that the fox would return. He'd seen the man cheat death so often he'd begun to believe that the fox was immortal.

He smoothed the fabric over his knee. What if Zorro truly had perished that night? Garcia was a soldier, and in reality he was not foolish enough to believe the fox was truly immortal, no matter how much he wished it. But Zorro was much more than just a man. He was a symbol. He was hope to those who had little to hope for, justice for those too weak to fight for themselves, a man who treated all with dignity and respect, regardless of class or status.

He thought of the little girl Zorro had given his life for. What would happen to the people if their hero was truly gone?

His heart was heavy at the thought. The Commandante was a good man, true, but in Garcia's experience Los Angeles seemed unable to hold its leaders for long, and even with a good leader there was still trouble enough. Who would protect them if Zorro was gone? Garcia grasped the sides of the mask in his hands and raised it toward his face, only to pause halfway and lower it with a shake of his head. He slumped his shoulders, cradling his head in one hand. He was a soldier, not a hero…and besides, even if he could wear the mask, he was far from unrecognizable.

His eyes slipped closed beneath the weight of the duty that loomed before him. It was time to tell the Commandante the rest of the story. He would take full responsibility for the omission. After all, he'd ordered Reyes not to tell anyone about the finding of Zorro's mask, reasoning that if the fox returned, there was no need to cause a panic. They gone back to search at daybreak on the following morning, carefully avoiding the caves, but they'd found nothing and their duties had prevented them from returning again. He sighed again and squared his shoulders. It was time.

A muffled sneeze sounded behind him.

"Bless you." He murmured absently.

"Gracias."

His eyes widened comically, and he charged to his feet. The candle flickered wildly as he bumped into the dresser as he spun to face the intruder, his hand fumbling for his absent sword. The hand rose to clutch his chest, and his face drained of blood, at the sight of the figure leaning against the window frame.

"Buenos Tardes, Sergeant."

His jaw snapped shut, and then opened, his mouth moving but his voice failing. He swallowed heavily and tried again. "Are you a ghost?" he squeaked.

A chuckle was his answer, deeper in timber than normal.

"I assure you that I am quite real." Zorro grinned and gave a small bow, an affect that was promptly ruined by another sneeze.

The wide smile that had encompassed Garcia's face slipped at the sneeze as he studied the man with concern. "Are you well, Zorro? Where have you been? We were afraid you were dead. I mean, _I_ didn't think such a thing, but Corporal Reyes and the others…"

The deep chuckle returned. "I am quite well, Sergeant." He waved a gloved hand in dismissal. "Apart from the minor inconvenience of a cold."

Garcia's head swam with overwhelming relief, and he sank down onto the bed his knees grew weak. "We searched for you." The words began hesitantly. "Up and down the canyon, but we didn't find you." His face grew red. "But of course you knew this. If we had found you, you would have known, but we didn't. I mean we found your mask by the water, but then there was a ghost." His face grew very sad. "I am sorry, Zorro. We should not have run away."

He dared a glance at the man, and was surprised to see guilt Zorro's eyes before it was shuttered away behind a warm smile.

"I do not blame you, my friend." Zorro replied. "Please do not blame yourself."

Garcia felt as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders at the words. He smiled.

"I am glad you did not drown."

Zorro laughed. "I also. That would have been most unfortunate." He straightened, moving nearer to the window. "And now, if you would be so kind as to return what is mine, I must be on my way."

Garcia did so.

"And, Sergeant," Zorro remarked, tucking the mask inside a pocket. "I think the mask would have looked very becoming on you."

He grinned, and with a small salute, slipped through the window and vanished into the night.

Garcia thought about it, and he laughed.

It felt good to laugh.

* * *

_A/N: I believe this is where the screen cuts to Zorro riding off into the night while the theme sings 'Zorro! Zorro! Zorro!' Thank you very much for reading and for the excellent and very useful feedback. I had fun writing it, hoping you found it fun to read. Now off to catch up on my reading. Until next time Zorro fans! - Red_


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